


Time

by ablindromance



Category: Angelo (Band), the GazettE
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3413012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ablindromance/pseuds/ablindromance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unlikely meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time

They knew no sense of time. One moment faded into the next, then that moment into another.  
An early morning Frappuccino with a double shot of expresso from Starbuck’s led to a round of hard liquor that night. It was a celebratory gesture, his treat. An act of good will for the unjust reputation he’d managed to acquire. 

It had never been a likelihood that they would ever share a stage together, yet the need for money and well-being of careers brought them together. A rock festival of sorts was a money pit hardly anyone could refuse to contribute to. The fans hungered and they would deliver.

And so it was. Numerous bands, some large named and some not, sharing a venue and a common goal of artistic expression. Someone would make it big tonight. The smell of backstage revelry and cigarette smoke permeated the place. It was heavy with the atmosphere of sweat, high energy, and fellowship of the industry; the post-concert high that left the performers and audience in surreal bliss. Some vocalists were so exhausted that they excused themselves politely from festivities and disappeared into obscure vehicles that would take them home. The more rowdy bunch, guitarists, lingered behind and exercised their charisma with loud jokes, laughter and copious amounts of alcohol. The bassists and drummers mingled more smoothly, as even-tempered and mysterious as the instruments they played. Each man left his all on that dark, dusty stage.

Eventually the gathering dispersed and the merriment ended, fatigue and impending hangovers looming on the hard bodies and make up-streaked faces. The roadies and staff only dragged behind now, performing the somber ritual of taking down and packing away instruments, disassembling stage structures, rearranging lighting and cleaning… 

And it was here in the solitude of a flashy black car that they married whiskey-laden exhalations. The backseat was cramped for the stretch of legs it hosted. Soft lips violently worried the milky white flesh of a throat stretched to the BMW’s canvas roof. 

A slender hand held him hostage, jagged lines of tattoos reaching down a thin but muscular arm that pinned Uruha’s head back against the armrest. The hold was firm just like he liked it. The body above him was slim but hard, toned with age and experience and an aged authority that caught his attention for the past month or so in meetings about tonight’s festival. He turned an aloof eye to this low-key, nonchalant man that rarely spoke outside of work.

Kirito rarely spoke, and yet he found himself conversing with the vocalist on a few intimate occasions where the awkwardness of adjourned meetings and a vacant schedule left them as stragglers in the large, square room. An invitation for coffee turned into a few meetings where an easy tension slowly built like a rubberband being pulled around a spindle. It was tonight that the rubber finally snapped into violent passion and scratches along Kirito’s spine. Uruha’s silken voice, much deeper than the vocalist’s, spilled in masculine grunts of lust against a mass of black hair. 

The windows were thick with moisture from their labor, shut tight and tinted dark to contain the secret of their sin. An unlikely pair, but alcohol always mended the Wrong. With the right push Uruha could easily free himself from the tyrannical grip if he wished, bust a lip, crack a rib. But he didn’t. He thrived in the delicious Wrong and the fullness the other forced within him. He submitted to the command in the older man’s eyes when he stared, the tight-lipped mannerisms in public, the brutality he hid within a body seemingly incapable of such. That harshness took the power from his body and parted his thighs so vulgarly in the back of his own car. 

He would not fight it. Dizzying sensations drowned his senses and he rocked steadily with the movement of the other above him. The car gently lumbered from side to side like a heavy beast swaying in its stride. It was more intoxicating than the liquor. Drunk together on a night of calamity, they were in no rush. The night was getting stale but long from over. They knew no sense of time.


End file.
